


The Case of the Absent Avian

by KtwoNtwo



Series: A Piece of Eight [3]
Category: One Piece, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Space Pirates, slash goggles optional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:36:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7752463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KtwoNtwo/pseuds/KtwoNtwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An excerpt from the private journal of J. H. Watson regarding how a unique bird became, for a short time, a client of Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Absent Avian

In my long association with Sherlock Holmes I have become inured to the strange occurrences that my friend seems to attract.  My friend and companion acts as a draw to the bizarre and inexplicable like rotting fruit in a terrestrial environment brings in every insect for miles.  Many of these events are in some way related to the cases which I have taken to documenting for the amusement of the current generation and the edification of those to come.  However, there are quite a few other instances where Holmes and I were merely on the periphery of larger historical incidents and our part was so miniscule that publication would only appear to be self-aggrandizement.  I have taken to recording these experiences in my private journaling simply to enhance my recollection of the events as they occurred. 

It had been less than half a stan-year since Sherlock’s return to the land of the living and his deductive practice had not quite recovered from the effects of his fall and hiatus.  Sherlock had been taking cases which hitherto fore he would have labeled _only a 5_ and refused to investigate if he had to leave his chair to solve.  After the conclusion of one of such cases one evening we returned to Baker Street only to meet our neighbor M. Hudson on her way out.

 “Good evening Doctor; Sherlock,” she said.  “I hope you didn’t mind but I let a client of yours into the sitting room.”

 “Not at all,” Sherlock replied. 

This state of affairs was quite normal.  In fact we had re-arranged our living quarters to allow this exact situation since Sherlock preferred to meet clients in a more relaxed environment.  He always said it tended to give him more data as he watched people react to the living environment as opposed to a more formal office setting.  M. Hudson was from an older generation where living space was more private.  She never quite understood Sherlock’s penchant for allowing clients into the sitting room and apologized profusely whenever she allowed one to wait for us there.

“He offered to wait in the cafe,” she said, “but he looked so worried and pale that I let him in.”

“It’s perfectly alright M. Hudson,” I reassured her.  “I suspect it is a matter of some urgency since he offered to wait.  Much better to offer him hospitality than to turn him away.”

“Well if you say so,” M. Hudson replied then added, “I’m off to the shops do you boys need anything?”

“No M. Hudson,” Sherlock answered.  “If this is a case I suspect we’ll be off again shortly.”

“Ta then,” she said and started off down the corridor. 

“Shall we?”  Sherlock gestured to our entranceway and I proceeded in and up the small flight of stairs to our flat.

I stopped in front of our interior door in alarm.  I had caught a slight whiff of smoke smell coming from our flat.  As anyone who has ever lived for any period of time on an orbital can attest smoke is not something that bodes well in the closed system that is a ship or a space station. 

“Nothing is currently burning,” Sherlock said from behind me.  “The flat would have sealed itself and the fire suppressors would have gone off.”

Reassured I opened the door cautiously not quite knowing what to expect.  What I saw certainly was up there in the top 10 of strange things that we’d ever had in the sitting room.  Perched on the back of the client chair was a turquoise bird with long bright yellow tail feathers.  I blinked.  It was a large bird that looked to be the size of a small eagle.  I quickly realized that it was not uniformly blue.  The breast feathers were a lighter sky blue while there were darker feathers, almost royal blue in color, along the edges of the wings with similar darker blue patches around the bird’s eyes.  It had a raptor’s head and longish legs ending in wicked looking talons which were currently poking holes in the chair’s upholstery.  There were also the long yellow tail feathers draped artistically over the chair back.  Speaking of the chair I noticed that the upholstery seemed to have acquired a stain as well as an even layer of ash that covered both the seat and the floor around the chair.

From my spot in the doorway I could not tell if we were dealing with a shifter who had been forced to shift due to injury or someone’s pet.  Either way it could be dangerous.  If a shifter had endured a forced shift he or she might be lost in his other shape and react as an animal would.  If it was an animal then any bird that large with that heavy hooked beak and those talons could do a substantial amount of damage.  I stayed put ready to slam the door shut if the bird proved to be hostile.  Sherlock could damn well do his initial set of deductions from behind me.

“Well, Well what have we here?” Sherlock’s voice was curious as he looked over my shoulder. 

The bird cocked its head at Sherlock’s comment and vocalized a soft trill as if in greeting.

“It’s alright John,” he continued.  “Our client appears to have full control even though he’s not in human form at the moment.” 

“Ok,” I said stepping carefully into the room, “but how do you know we have a shifter?  There aren’t any clothes lying about.” 

“The ash, Watson, the ash,” he replied.  “It’s a very rare but not unknown side effect for sudden shifting.  The excess energy released sometimes causes spontaneous combustion.”

“Wonderful.  So how are we going to figure out who this is and what he or she wants?”

Sherlock looked about the room then smiled, “He,” he said shortly as he walked over and fished a pair of sandals out from under the coffee table.  Sherlock examined them for a moment then added, “He’s a sailor on a private vessel judging from the size of the shoe, the soles and the wear pattern.  Most likely a member of the crew because these are well worn; he spends a lot of time on his feet.”

“A private vessel?”

“A commercial enterprise wouldn’t take a chance on a shifter who occasionally spontaneously combusts when shifting,” Sherlock explained.

The bird made a rude noise at that.

“So are you AWOL?” Sherlock addressed the bird directly for the first time.

The bird gave him a stare which I interpreted along with the body language as a distinct _no_.

Sherlock apparently came to the same conclusion because he asked, “Do you wish to be returned to your ship?” 

The bird replied with a trill that sounded almost hesitant.

Sherlock paused a bit looking at the bird then reached out to touch the stain on the chair.  His finger came away red.  “You were jumped.  So why would you think to come to me for assistance rather than returning directly to your ship?”

Knowing sailors and other military types as I did I could answer that one even without Sherlock’s deductive prowess. 

“He expected that whoever attacked him would be waiting in ambush to attack again as he tried to return to his vessel,” I stated.

The bird bobbed his head in agreement with my reasoning.

“So why us?” Sherlock wondered aloud.  “Does he know you or me?”

Our avian client made a derisive noise at that.  He also disengaged a foot from the back of the chair as if to make a gesture.  Unfortunately he half lost his balance and had to spread his wings in a sudden flap to right himself along with a chirp.  When he did so I noted a matted spot of feathers on his side; that chirp had been a squawk of pain.

“Hey,” I moved toward the bird, “do you need me to look at that injury?”  I didn’t quite know what I could do but I had to offer.  I’d treated shifters before but all of them had been mammalian quadrupeds.  Given the rarity of Cetaceans and Avians in the already minority shifter population very few doctors had any experience at all with such patients.

He made a negative noise at me so I stopped advancing.  As I did so my foot connected with the edge of the throw rug flipping the corner over.  Underneath, where it easily could have been missed was what looked like a yellow garter with a white tassel. 

Sherlock pounced and grabbed it.  He examined it closely then with looked up at me with an _I’ve figured it all out_ expression on his face.

“Check the South Docks registry and see if there is a ship named Phoenix in port.”

I did so and indeed there was a vessel named Phoenix docked at berthing S-31.  I informed Sherlock who was now pacing around the sitting room.  He made another lap then stopped.

“This is going to require a disguise, a small delivery grav-pallet, and a large box,” he said then looked at the bird, “that is assuming you want to be returned to your ship and don’t suffer from claustrophobia.”

The bird trilled in assent while I started looking amongst our contacts as to where we could acquire a box and the loan of a delivery pallet.

A couple of stans later I sent a rather disreputable looking delivery person, Sherlock in disguise, off to berth S-31 with the bird packed nicely in a nest of blankets built inside a non-descript oversized box.  The grav-pallet was there to disguise the weight.  Sherlock opined, and the bird agreed, that if the attackers knew of our client’s shifted form then they’d be on the lookout for someone delivering a relatively light box in a size large enough to hold the bird. 

It didn’t take long.  Sherlock was back in less than a stan having ditched the disguise and returned the pallet on the way back. 

“So,” I inquired after Sherlock had settled in his chair with a cup of tea, “did you deliver our crew member safely to his berth?”

“Not crew,” Sherlock said shortly taking a sip of his tea.

“An officer?”

“It’s always something,” he muttered half to himself the looked up at me.

“You going to fill me in?” I asked as if Sherlock would ever pass up an opportunity to show off his mental acumen even if it was just to me.

“To make a long story short,” he replied with a smirk, “Marco the Captain of the Phoenix and First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates now owes us a rather large favor.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place about 6 months after the events in _The Universe is Rarely So Lazy_. The plot bunnies generated by that story have been multiplying at a phenomenal rate to the point that they are fast developing into an entire crossover universe. To make matters more complex my muse has now developed a fascination with Marco.
> 
> Since this one will stand alone I'll sign off as usual with apologies to the Bard:
> 
>  
> 
> _If this writer has offended,_  
>  _Think but this and all is mended,_  
>  _That you have but tarried here,_  
>  _Whilst each chapter did appear,_  
>  _And these word upon this theme,_  
>  _Are of no import, only my dream._
> 
>  
> 
> It has been an honor to share my dream with you.  
> 


End file.
